A monk was taking his leave. Kuei-tsung asked, “Where are you going?” The monk said, “I’m going here and there to study the Zen of the Five flavors.” Kuei-tsung said, “Other places may teach the Zen of the Five flavors; here I have only the Zen of one flavor.” “And what is the Zen of one flavor?” said the monk. Kuei-tsung hit him. “I understand, I understand.” “Then tell me, tell me.” Just as the monk opened his mouth, Kuei-tsung hit him again.
Ikkyū and the Crazy Cloud Anthology, “From Wu Teng Hui Yuan,” p. 100.
I have some admiration for this monk; thorough in his commitment to Zen he seeks training in meditation, Zen beyond words and form, Theravadan and Mahayana practices, and shikantaza. Kuei-tsung addressed a different perspective.
In the talk on the first day – I spoke of bells and bows, at once the application and the expression of Zen. On this day Kuei-tsung invites us to seek nothing from anywhere else, and to taste the one flavor already here that needs no words of explanation. Ikkyū wrote a poem about this story offering a taste for us now.
Instructing the Cook in the Mountains
Kuei-tsung’s one flavor could be enjoyed day after day and still have more to give.
Cook, here in the mountains, your skill is not in vain.
Stop seeking for Vimilakirti’s Feast of Massed Fragrances
Whenever there are two tasty fish, it is a banquet.
Ikkyū and the Crazy Cloud Anthology, poem 91, p. 100
Ikkyū’s poem carries references to the Vimilakirti Sutra and an astonishing fragrance brought to delight an assembly of Boddhisatvas, and includes the advice not to seek it. Anything beyond the creaking floors and the distractions of your own mind are other places, other flavors. Ikkyū also referenced two tasty fish taken from the last two lines of the poem “Li Chien’s House” by Tu Fu.
About to eat the two tasty fish,
Who would look for the heaviness of other flavors?
Through a single period of zazen we sometimes can’t help but to go here and there. We can perceive this as a distraction – and it is – even as it is a banquet of one-flavor Zen. And that one flavor is on your tongue and in your ears as you listen.
But if there is one flavor, how do you understand the three responses offered in this case of Sung-yūan:
Master Sung-yūan rose to lecture and presented this case.
A monk once asked Pa-ling: Is the meaning of the Zen Patriarchs and teaching of the Buddha the same or different?
Pa-ling said, “Chickens, when they are cold, roost in trees; geese when they are cold, settle in water.”
Our ancestor Po-yūn said: Pa-ling said only half of it.
I would say it differently: “Scoop up water, and the moon is in your hands. Play with flowers, and their fragrance is in your clothes.”
Our Master Sung-yūan, taking this further said: “Po-yūn, even though he put all he had into what he said, gets only eight points. If someone were to ask me I would just say: the ignorance of distinguishing self and other is stuck on one stick.
Ikkyū and the Crazy Cloud Anthology, p. 125-6
This case presents three responses to a T’ang dynasty monk’s question of Pa-ling, “Is the meaning of the Zen Patriarchs and teaching of the Buddha the same or different?” Pa-ling’s answer was, “Chickens, when they are cold, roost in trees; geese when they are cold, settle in water.” What did he tell the venerable monk, the same or different? Whether the same or different, your right and left legs are of one body.
Then a couple Chinese dynasties (Sung dynasty) later, Po-yūn responded, “Scoop up water, and the moon is in your hands. Play with flowers, and their fragrance is in your clothes.” Is Po- yūn’s response the same as Pa-ling’s or different? I can’t say. I can say that one jewel has many facets that glint and fascinate when turned in the light. And I can say I love the poetic imagery that infuses water with moon, and clothing with fragrance. Po-yūn expresses the particular – water and moon, fragrance and clothing; hearing his illustration of the particulars, we can’t help but recognize the inseparability of each.
Sung-yūan, an ancestor in Ikkyū’s lineage, was not satisfied with either Pa-ling or Po-yūn, and instead said, “If someone were to ask me I would just say: the ignorance of distinguishing self and other is stuck on one stick.”
Ikkyū comments on Sung-yūan and adds a fourth response to the monk with this poem:
Is the meaning of the Patriarchs and the Teaching of the Buddha different or the same?
The measuring up, now and then, never ends.
Old Sung-yūan, kind as a grandmother, tells us
The ignorance of distinguishing self and other begins with ourselves.
Ikkyū and the Crazy Cloud Anthology, p. 125-6
Pa-ling had one flavor. Po-yūn and Sung-yūan each had another. Ikkyū kindly observes that we each inevitably have our preferences and patterns, and then expresses his own. In our ignorance, we can’t help but measuring this against that, and you against me, starting with the words, “I,” and “me.” These two words are useful through the day, and need not distract us if we can avoid “not I,” and “not me.”
This is living Zen. Including the monk, five practitioners, four incidentally were teachers as well, all engaged personally with the meaning of the dharma they found. The first instigation was the question by the monk – are the teachings the same or different? Their inquiries from Pa-ling to Ikkyü spanned from the 10th to the 15th centuries. To have been inspired to address the case, each must have been drawn like moths to flame, to recognize their own responses. Otherwise, they would have read the case, said, “interesting,” and moved on to cutting the lawn. Their examples inspire me as well to look deeply at the case and recognize my own response. You and I can make it our own.
A monk once asked Pa-ling: Is the meaning of the Zen Patriarchs and teaching of the Buddha the same or different?
Pa-ling said, “Chickens, when they are cold, roost in trees; geese when they are cold, settle in water.”
Each of these four ancestral teachers had their way of expression, at least on the specific days from which we have these recorded responses in their writings. If we were there the next day and asked any one of these old worthies the monk’s question again – “Is the … teaching … the same or different?” – I believe we’d hear different replies than given on the day before. Each response is one flavor.
During sesshin, the question is mine and yours to address today, to address now. The words I’m speaking are one flavor. Just as with any taste, I can describe a flavor that can give guidance about the category of a food, but no description can replace the taste of something on your own tongue. I can say a food is sweet, and you can decide if you’re ready for dessert before trying it. I can add that it’s a lemon custard, and you will know more about the flavor, without knowing the mix of tart and sweet. It could not be otherwise.
Taste it. Taste the sound of my voice and the cadence of my talk, the words you can distinguish, and the sounds of the words I speak too softly to make out. Taste it all outside of categories and descriptions. Buddha twirled a flower and Kashyapa smiled. Everything we see is a flower held aloft by Buddha and twirled so we can see every side of it. Chao-chou said, “Oak tree in the courtyard.” All that we can see, touch, or smell is the same as what Chao-chou offered to us so long ago.
On one day, Ikkyū wrote the poem with the ending line, “The ignorance of distinguishing self and other begins with ourselves.” On another day he wrote this one:
Praising Monk Hsü-t’ang
The master of Yü-wang turned his back on the whole world.
He abandoned his monk’s robe as though it were a broken sandal.
Of Rinzai’s Correct Transmission, not a jot;
Whole heaven clear, wind and moon fill a singing heart.
Ikkyū and the Crazy Cloud Anthology, p. 69
Turn your back on the whole world today; abandon Zen, even as we sit. There is no right or wrong in following and not following breath. There are no Buddhas, no patriarchs, no sesshin, which leaves the wind and moon, the furnace blower and the refrigerator light.
Frankly, the advice to turn my back on something doesn’t really help me. Rather than turning away, the active component that speaks to me is the turning toward, turning toward the wind and the moon. Bashō says it yet another way in this poem:
Exhausted
Seeking an inn:
Wisteria flowers.
Robert Aitken, A Zen Wave; Bashō’s Haiku and Zen, p. 20.
What Basho was purposefully seeking was an inn. Though worn out and ready to rest his head, he was also receptive in a way that welcomed the surprise of wisteria flowers. Can you see the rain and dirt, sun and clouds in the flowers?
Zen talks can sound esoteric, as if addressing something else, as if describing an experience that is not this one. When writing a talk, this is the point when I watch for stories that bring the topic into everyday life.
But with these stories, our ancestors have already done it. The precise translation of Chao-chou was of a cypress tree; Aitken chose “oak tree in the courtyard” instead because oak trees are what we see. In western Washington, we could say “fir tree.” Whatever the type of tree, the story is clear – if we want to know why Bodhidharma came from the west, look here, to the bamboo in the Dharma Gate courtyard, and to the zoom equipment in the dojo.
So, I leave it to you. What clarity have you stumbled on such that wind and moon filled your singing heart-mind? No need to find extraordinary moments, that’s looking for a category that’s outside of this very life. When the protective doors and windows of heart-mind are thrown open, wind can blow through every corner and cabinet, and every surface glows with the soft light of moon.
I leave it to you to take all this back from the esoteric and make it your own. It is you going here and there to study the Zen of five flavors, and you asking whether the teaching of the Buddha and the ancestors the same or different. All these flavors have been offered for twenty-five-hundred years, and Sung-yūan says to you and me today, there is one flavor. When seeking something special, if we crane our necks to look around what is before us, we miss it.
I’ll end with a couple more poems of Ikkyū and Bashō written when they were not craning their necks.
Wind Bell
In stillness it echoes not, in movement it rings;
Is it the wind or the bell that has a voice?
Waking up this old monk from his daytime nap,
What need is there to sound the midnight watch at noon?
Ikkyū and the Crazy Cloud Anthology, poem 110, p. 105
The old pond;
A frog jumps in—
The sound of water.
Robert Aitken, A Zen Wave; Bashō’s Haiku and Zen, p. 3.